


Something To Hide

by gimmefire



Category: Green Day, Rancid
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Leashes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>People asked him why he wore that fucking thing onstage.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something To Hide

People asked him why he wore that fucking thing onstage. It wasn't like he enjoyed it, fuck no - it was sweltering under those damn lights. Add to that the pyro they used, and Billie felt like he was performing in the middle of Death Valley in August smothered in wasabi. Needless to say, his usual antics were toned down dramatically.

But he still wore that baggy polar neck sweater.

He claimed he felt he was coming down with something, feeling kinda fluey. Cold chills, sweats, all that jazz. Didn't sound or look even slightly convincing - the fact that he was in full voice and was the colour of a sunburnt beetroot by the time the show was over got him sideways glances from his bandmates. Fuck 'em. Wasn't any of their business.

Still, people asked him why he wore it onstage.

Luckily he didn't have to wear it every show, else there'd really be cause for suspicion. No, he only had to wear it when Green Day played the Bay Area.

It was the only time he had something to hide.

\---------------------

Stumbling offstage once the lights went out, Billie leaned against the wall, vision spinning. Mike gave him a look as he passed him, a look of annoyance poorly masked with indifference. Billie didn't even see it, bent double as he was, eyes closed, face positively glowing and dripping with sweat. Feeling so lightheaded he thought his brain had to be attached to its stem with string, he straightened up and made his way down the backstage corridor towards his dressing room, arm dragging heavy against the wall for support.

He managed to reach his room, slamming the door - well, he collapsed against it and it slammed shut, same difference - behind him. Hands slicked with sweat, he pushed himself up, locked the door and lurched over towards the window, flinging it open with all the desperate energy he had left. A brisk breeze swirled in, curling around his overheated body and drawing chill fingers over what little exposed flesh there was.

Billie soon remedied that.

Reaching down to his waist, he gripped the hem of the sweater - that odious, necessary sweater - and lifted it, peeling the sodden material from his slick skin with a disgusted groan. Then it was off, away, gone. It fell to the floor with a repellent _shlup_ and Billie didn’t give another thought to it. He raised his arms and rested his hands against the window frame, breathing deep and letting the night air embrace him.

"Jesus," he hissed softly.

The dressing room was elevated three stories above the ground, which was now swarming with fans, black clad kids and their parents, SUVs stalled in traffic, teens with hair sculpted high and sharing a smoke and a story under the safety of a streetlamp. Elation and engine noise drifted up in equal measure. Beyond that, silent warehouses and stores. And beyond that, just within view, the Bay. Embraced with a string of lights and skewered by the glittering Bay Bridge like a pierced heart. The night sky lay burnt orange and heavy over it all.

It was a beautiful sight, utterly lost on Billie.

He looked out blankly, moaning low and long, slowly coming back to reality and becoming aware of his surroundings. His back arched instinctively, gleaming torso stretching out towards the cool night, head rolling back. It was this motion that caused a sudden, jarring metallic noise, something hitting and dragging up the windowsill. Billie started and looked down.

He let out a breath.

A hand clamped tight onto his shoulder, nails piercing tattooed skin. He was yanked hard backwards, a jangling noise reaching his ears like an alarm, until it was silenced with a second strong hand. Billie gasped as he was jerked off his feet, hands flying out to save himself and knees coming down with a hard thud. Mind still not quite his own, he could only stumble and flounder as he was dragged away from the window.

He finally came to a halt, shoulder throbbing from carpet burn. He began to push himself up on shuddering limbs, only to have his head pulled sharply up. His arms hung useless and limp by his sides as watery, unsteady vision followed the leash around his neck, up to the tattooed knuckles wrapped tight around the leather strap.

His breathing began to hiss, skin singing with heat and flesh throbbing with discomfort. He tasted fear and lust in the back of a drying throat, and whimpered softly as the leash chain was snapped taut.

Narrowed blue eyes lay contempt at this punk rock god's altar.

"Fuckin' parasite." Tim rasped.


End file.
